


You'd Want To Give Up The Ghost

by bedegraine



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-07
Updated: 2011-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedegraine/pseuds/bedegraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is when the dreams turn into nightmares. He resents Arthur for leaving, hates him. And hates himself for it, because he knows it wasn’t Arthur’s fault. That it wasn’t what Arthur wanted at all. And he finds himself- over and over- imagining what the last thing that flashed through Arthur’s mind would have been. Had he been scared? Had he thought of Merlin? Had he even realized what was going on? Had it hurt?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'd Want To Give Up The Ghost

It’s early morning when Merlin wakes up, blinking blearily in the darkness and reaching automatically towards the other side of the bed. His fingers search for warmth, sliding over the covers and looking for purchase in soft blonde hair. His fingertips tingling with the want of skin, he lazily fancies tracing circles over Arthur’s hip bones, kissing him into drowsy wakefulness and bringing him off slowly in the quiet of their bedroom.  
But his hands find nothing except the crisp cleanness of cold sheets.  
He turns onto his side, eyes open and staring into the emptiness that greets him. There is no figure next to him, no blonde hair to run his hands through, no warm chest to tuck himself against. Just a blank white wall and lonely white sheets. And as Merlin’s sleep-addled mind clears, his fingers curl and fist in those sheets; the dull, tingling want morphing into an aching throb of longing. The silent euphoria of peaceful rest slips away and he’s lowered again into reality. It’s heavy on him, every inch of him, crushing down like a constant weight. He closes his eyes again, breathes in. Smells nothing but fabric softener and the faintest trace of booze. Breathes out.  
Breathes in, wishes and hopes to smell more, feel more. Holds back from choking. Breathes out.  
When he opens his eyes again, the image of his empty bed is less jarring, less shocking. More numbing. He stares into the space, stares hard as though if he concentrates enough, maybe he’ll see more. But he knows he won’t. He never does. Nothing but air and dust, visible drifting above the covers in the dim moonlight. Nothing but that aching emptiness.  
He wants to turn away, he can’t stand looking at all that nothing. But he can’t make himself move. Transfixed by the memory of what belonged there. Memories of gold hair, smooth skin, gentle words. He closes his eyes again, screws them shut, and pretends he can feel the dip in the mattress, the warmth. But it gets harder every night, to recall that feeling. Every night, it grows more and more distant. And he knows, eventually he wont be able to remember at all. That knowledge courses through him with a bitter disparity, a hopeless frustration. And as much as he tries to reconcile it, he can’t. As much as he tells himself that it’s not so bad, it is. Because the space on the other side of the mattress is matched equally on the couch in the living room, at the table in the kitchen, throughout the entire world. There is nowhere that emptiness doesn’t touch, because there is no longer anywhere that Arthur touches. Arthur will never sit on that couch or a that table, he’ll never take another step on the earth. His hands will never touch Merlin again.  
Arthur does not touch Merlin, but the emptiness does. It wells up and hollows him, numbing the coldness of his skin and dulling every thought, smell, sight. It wraps around him, makes him hungry and queasy at the same time. Exhausted and restless. He is caught. Caught in this bed, unable to move or look away. Caught in the world, unable to move on yet unable to stay where he is. Caught in his own head, unable to stop thinking the thoughts that are slowly driving him mad.  
In his moments of lucidity, he knows that he’s withering. That eventually he’ll run out of money. He’ll have to leave his bedroom. He’ll have to stop dreaming of Arthur’s laugh and Arthur’s crooked grin. But the moments of lucidity are just that, moments, and they fade and he returns to dreaming of Arthur. Dreaming of the way his skin looked in the sun or moonlight. The way his fingers felt laced with Merlin’s. The way he tasted and the way he moved. The way Merlin’s name sounded on his lips late at night in hushed, drowsy decibels. The way his eyes shone when he looked into Merlin’s, blue matching blue in complete earnest understanding. The way he promised, promised. He promised he’d always be there.  
This is when the dreams turn into nightmares. He resents Arthur for leaving, hates him. And hates himself for it, because he knows it wasn’t Arthur’s fault. That it wasn’t what Arthur wanted at all. And he finds himself- over and over- imagining what the last thing that flashed through Arthur’s mind would have been. Had he been scared? Had he thought of Merlin? Had he even realized what was going on? Had it hurt?  
A million different ways, he imagined the light fading from those blue eyes. A thousand times he thought he heard the voice call his name, only to turn and find no one, nothing. Hundreds of times, he felt the ghost of those hands across his skin. And all the while the emptiness filled him, overflowed. Sorrow and sadness coupled with rage and complete, raw want. Want that burned him so deep he couldn’t breathe. He couldn't see the point in breathing.  
The emptiness smothered him, stared at him from the other side of the bed where his fist was still clenched where a heart had once touched, called to him from the living room where all his possessions still screamed of Arthur’s presence, leered at him from the kitchen where there were still voicemails waiting and preserving the conversations they’d never had the chance to have. There was no reconciling it, there was nothing to do but yell. Yell until his throat was raw and he was red in the face, and then yell some more. Yell at the bed for being so bare and lonely, yell at the moon for lighting up the sadness, yell at Arthur for leaving. For leaving him all alone in this bed, this world, this head. Yell at Arthur for not keeping his promises- because he fucking promised. Whispered into Merlin’s hair, against his skin with passionate purpose, sworn that he’d look after Merlin. That Merlin would never be alone again. He’d pressed his lips to Merlin’s collarbone and said, it’s you forever, you’re the only one, you’re my everything, and I’m yours. He’d lied. Because where was he now? Not here, not with Merlin, not making love to him or stroking his cheek, no. He was gone, and Merlin would never get him back.  
Nothing to do but yell some more, until his screaming melted into sobs, broken and hitched as they racked his body, rutting him into the mattress. And the air was still cold on his shoulders, his fingers still curled in the crisp cleanness of the sheet next to him, as the sobs carried away what little energy the dark morning had bestowed upon him. His dreams started even before unconsciousness had settled over him again, laced with hurt and anger and dread, and knowing that he was doomed to do it all again in the morning. And the next night. And the night after that.


End file.
